Cathy Mcdavid - The Comeback Cowboy

Adele stroked the animal’s neck. “She was my first barrel-racing horse. Gosh, was that really fourteen years ago?”

“Did you compete professionally?” Ty asked. He stood beside her, his elbow propped on the stall door.

“A little in college.”

“Any good?”

“All right.”

“Why’d you quit?”

She absently combed her fingers through Crackers’s mane. “I came here after graduation to help Pop with the ranch. He’d turned seventy, and his arthritis was getting bad. He needed help, and I needed a job.” She didn’t mention her grandmother’s death. “I’ve always loved Seven Cedars, and spent a lot of time here when I was growing up.”

“Did your parents rodeo?”

“My dad. Though he never did all that well, and moved to Texas years ago. My mom traveled the rodeo circuit considerably longer than Dad, but not to compete.”

Adele didn’t elaborate. Despite Ty’s friendliness, she wasn’t ready to confess that her mother had taken up with whatever cowboy would have her, dropping Adele off with her grandparents if her father wouldn’t have her. As her mother aged and her looks faded, those cowboys went from being competitors to bullfighters to stock handlers. In between men, she’d find a small place to rent for herself and Adele, but only until another man came along. For a young girl feeling unloved and unwanted, Seven Cedars became a haven in an otherwise turbulent childhood.

“So, Pop taught you to rope.”

“He was a man ahead of his time. In those days, women didn’t rope. Period.” She opened the stall door and went in to give Crackers a closer inspection.

“She looks close,” Ty observed.

“Soon.” The foal had dropped considerably in the last week, but otherwise, Crackers showed no signs of delivering. “She’s due this week.”

“Her first?”

“Second. Up until a few years ago, we used her steadily for beginner students. When her stamina began to fade, we decided to breed her.” Adele patted Crackers’s rump, then left the stall and shut the door behind her. “She’s got good lines, and she’s a good mama.”

“And she’s your first horse.”

“Pop bought her for me when I was a freshman in high school. There were always plenty of horses to ride wherever I lived, but she was the first one that was truly mine.” Latching the stall door, she met Ty’s gaze. “Cook will be serving dinner soon, and I need to get back to my office first.”

“Will I see you in the dining hall?”

“Absolutely.”

Adele made a point of sharing dinner each evening with the students, often moving from one table to another. That way, she got to know them on a more personal level. Breakfast and lunch, however, were hit-or-miss and often consumed on the run.

At the entrance to the barn, she and Ty separated, each heading to their own vehicle. Hers was parked closer, and she hesitated before climbing in, stilled by the sight of Ty striding to his truck.

It had been a very long time since Adele had met a man who gave her that uncomfortable yet deliciously thrilling feeling every time she got within ten feet of him.

She silently warned herself to proceed with caution. Ty Boudeau had all the makings of a heartbreaker, and as much as she might want to get to know him on a more “personal level,” she was far better off keeping her distance.

Men who spent inordinate amounts of time on the road didn’t make good husbands. It was one of the many lessons her parents’ failed marriage and her mother’s endless stream of lovers had taught Adele.

Ty drove through the small town of Markton, the closest community to Cowboy College. It could hardly be described as a metropolis, but he liked its grassroots country charm, its one stoplight at the intersection of Main Street and Brown, and the way everybody waved at everybody else.

Markton was a far cry from Santa Fe, where he’d grown up. He couldn’t say lived because once he’d left home to rodeo full-time, he traveled six to nine months a year. When he needed to crash for a while, he stayed at his older sister’s place. His fifth-wheel trailer parked behind the barn was, sad to say, the closest thing he had to a permanent residence.

He drove along Main Street at the posted speed of thirty-five, enjoying his free afternoon and taking in the various sights. The Spotted Horse Saloon. The feed store. Bush’s General Store. The elementary school. The barbershop and its counterpart, Goldie’s Locks and Nail Salon.

He’d often thought he might like to settle down in a town like Markton, and as he drove through it—end to end in less than five minutes—he contemplated where to stop first.

The feed store, an always familiar stomping ground, looked to have possibilities. Ty pulled into an empty space across from a sign advertising a popular brand of dog food. Inside the store, he was greeted by the middle-aged man behind the counter, whose double take was almost comical.

“Ty Boudeau?” he asked with raised brows.

“On a good day,” Ty joked.

“We heard you were in town.” The man came around from behind the counter carrying a pen and piece of paper. “Name’s Henry Parkman.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, the wife would sure love to have your autograph.”

“No trouble.”

It felt good being asked. The requests for autographs had tapered off since he’d lost at Nationals. Ty preferred to think it was because he hadn’t been competing of late, not that he’d fallen from grace.

As he scribbled his name on the notepad, Henry Parkman produced his cell phone, held it at arm’s reach, leaned in close and snapped a picture of him and Ty.

“For the wife.” He grinned sheepishly. “Anything special I can help you with today?”

“Just browsing.”

“Holler if you need me,” he said to Ty, returning to his place behind the cash register.

Ty gravitated to the back of the store where the saddles and a rather impressive assortment of lariats hung on the wall. Though he wasn’t in the market for another one, he removed several from the wall display and tested them for weight and flexibility.

For reasons he chose not to address, he avoided the Iron Grip Ropes—though it probably had something to do with the face smiling at him from the rope’s cardboard wrapper. Garth Maitland. The man who’d beat out Ty for the championship last December.

“Mr. Boudeau?” The cracking voice belonged to a teenager who bore a striking resemblance to Stick. “Hi.”

“Hate to bother you, sir,” he said, his exceptionally large Adam’s apple bobbing as he talked, “but could I trouble you for an autograph?”

“Are you by chance related to Stick over at Cowboy College?” Ty asked as he signed the kid’s ball cap with a black marker.

The teen’s eyes went wide. “He’s my cousin.”

“Well, he’s a pretty good worker. But don’t tell him I said so.”

“I—I won’t,” the kid stammered, and made a beeline for the door.

Ty wasn’t in the market for a new pair of boots, either, but he checked out the selection just for something to do. The front-door buzzer went off every few minutes as customers came and left. Deciding he could possibly use a new leather belt, he picked one out and headed to the counter.

While he completed his purchase, the door buzzer went off again. Bidding the store owner goodbye, he turned…and came face-to-face with Adele.

“Oh!” She drew back. “Hello. I didn’t know you were here.”

“Just seeing what the town has to offer.” He glanced at the attractive young woman beside Adele, whose stylish clothes and painful looking four-inch heels were more suited to a stroll down Hollywood Boulevard than Main Street in Markton. “I’m Ty Boudeau.”